


Monstrous Gods

by ArtemisPendragon (ArtemisPendragyn)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hannibal is an outlaw, Hannibal loves Will but he's a total dick about it, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Old West, Sleeping Together, Slow Burn, Wild West AU, Will is a ranger, Will loves Hannibal but also wants to strangle him, it's all very dramatic and gay, old west au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisPendragyn/pseuds/ArtemisPendragon
Summary: Will is a ranger who hunts killers and outlaws. Hannibal is a renowned doctor who moonlights as a cannibalistic serial killer. After Hannibal saves Will's life, he discovers that Will is on a mission to find the California Ripper. Unfortunately, Hannibal is the California Ripper. Instead of doing the rational thing (killing Will and running away), Hannibal does the irrational thing (falling in love with Will) and it all goes downhill from there.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	1. Wolf Canyon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a self-indulgent Wild West AU that I'm writing to procrastinate on my other WIPs. Yee-haw.

****

**Chapter One**

****

**Wolf Canyon**

The ranger couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. Even under the blood and dust, Hannibal made out a handsome, youthful face. The ranger’s eyes were closed, his skin excessively pale from blood loss, dry lips cracked and parted. He reminded Hannibal of saints in the biblical murals he had seen in his youth, long before he braved the Atlantic and the northern continent beyond. Like a Greek god coaxed from marble into flesh and abandoned in the vast, merciless expanse of red dirt and towering canyon walls.

 _I could wax poetic all day,_ Hannibal thought with a jolt of self-directed animosity, _or I could save this man’s life._ The ranger’s horse was already dead, the afternoon sun beating down on its motionless flanks and glazed eyes. If Hannibal hadn’t found them before nightfall, horse and rider both would have died.

As it was, the man was still alive. And, lucky for him, Hannibal thought (not without a streak of vanity and self-congratulation), he’d been found by a doctor. And not just any doctor: a surgeon of great renown.

“Today is your lucky day,” Hannibal informed the motionless ranger. “Or rather it is luckier than probability would predict.” As he spoke, he slipped a hand under the ranger’s shoulders and another under his bent legs, lifting him with a huff of effort. Even severely dehydrated, the ranger wasn’t light. But Hannibal, who had been a renowned athlete as well as a surgeon back in Europe, managed to lift his new patient onto his own horse and keep him there until he himself slid into the saddle.

“I’m afraid this will be a bumpy ride,” Hannibal said gravely. He hadn’t yet assessed the ranger’s condition, but it didn’t matter. Either he would live, or he would die. Hannibal, who was inclined to spite God rather than bow to him, nonetheless accepted that this situation was currently in the hands of a higher power. 

Hannibal’s horse hadn’t made it far before something shifted in the shadows spreading from the base of the canyon walls. He didn’t give any indication that he’d noticed—after all, if he were being hunted, it was better not to let the hunter know—but the distinct sensation of being watched fell over him like a heavy shawl. But as the minutes turned to hours and daylight waned, he relaxed. Coyotes or wolves may have smelled the provisions in his saddlebags and, driven to desperation by the heat of late summer, been bold enough to stalk him for a ways, but they weren’t stupid enough to attack two men on a stallion.

Day slipped into night and the desert creaked and groaned with animal sounds. Coyotes howled, frogs grunted, and in the distance an owl hooted. Hannibal, who was himself becoming quite thirsty, stopped in the shadow of a stone monolith and turned his horse loose. The stallion, Baltimore (named for the first American city he had lived in) tossed his head and snorted before trotting away. Hannibal preferred to let the animal roam freely whenever possible; a natural diet suited him better than whatever measly provisions fit in the saddlebags. 

Hannibal himself preferred a more natural diet, but he wasn’t above eating jerky and hardtack. Despite his aristocratic blood, his childhood had taught him that the best option wasn’t always the _best_ option. The energy expended hunting for fresh meat in the desert was rarely replenished by whatever he caught. Hannibal was excessively careful when weighing risks and rewards, and so far it had kept him in the saddle when many others had fallen off.

However, he was still a man—as much as it irked him to be reminded, even by himself—and occasionally he allowed himself the luxury of gambling. Not with money (an activity he believed far below him) but with lives. Sometimes his own, sometimes others.

Tonight, it was both.

On the ride through Wolf Canyon (aptly named, if the shadowy figure had in fact been a wolf), Hannibal had debated what to do with the ranger. Self-preservation dictated that he slit the man’s throat, start a fire, and cook the meat for the journey ahead. And, had he not stopped for provisions the day before, that is exactly what he would have done. Today his hunger, honed to a razor point, was of a mental rather than physical nature. And so the ranger would live, at least long enough for Hannibal’s curiosity to be sated. And then, depending on how things went from there, he might also sate his appetite. 

As he pulled the ranger down from the saddle and propped him against the saddlebags, Hannibal contemplated his options. The ranger was clearly dehydrated, and (unless there was a more grievously wounded man or beast roaming the canyon tonight) severely wounded. Hannibal never travelled without his medical supplies, but he was reluctant to use them on anyone but himself. Survival of the fittest (a concept Hannibal prided himself in having recognized long before reading Darwin’s theory) meant he should prioritize himself over someone so close to death. The ranger had lost the game of survival. The laws of nature dictated that he die.

But Hannibal, who wasn’t interested in following laws of any kind (not even the Ten Commandments), retrieved his medical kit and set about undoing God’s will.

As Hannibal pulled a knife and slit the ranger’s shirt from waist to neck, the ranger stirred. His eyes moved under closed lids and his fingers twitched, tilting his head back and baring his throat. For a moment Hannibal hesitated, knife in hand, and held his breath. It would be so easy. A flick of his wrist, a spurt of blood, and it would be over. 

Swallowing his bloodlust, Hannibal peeled off the ranger’s shirt (which had once been white but was now an unappealing shade of rust and dirt) and assessed the damage.

Under the shirt, the ranger’s ribs were bruised from his fall and below that, still oozing blood, was a bullet hole. Hannibal had treated enough bullet wounds to know that this was serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had passed cleanly through the ranger’s right side, primarily punching through muscle, fat, and skin. If he could stave off infection (a big _if_ , but not beyond the realm of possibility) long enough for the ranger to regain his strength, there was hope. 

“What did you get yourself into, hmm?” Hannibal asked as he prodded the wound, checking for signs of infection. It seemed fresh, which was good. However, Hannibal had seen patients with uninfected wounds succumb quickly to fevers—sometimes in mere days—because the bullet hadn’t passed through, or because bits of shrapnel or dirty clothing became lodged in the wound and festered. 

Opening a fine leather pouch, Hannibal extracted a vial of alcohol (clear, nearly pure proof) and a clean scrap of cloth. He wet the cloth and cleaned the edges of the bullet hole, then splashed water into the wound. The ranger winced and shifted but remained unconscious.

Once he was finished cleaning and bandaging the wound (both the front and back, once he’d been relatively sure the bullet had passed through without leaving anything behind), he retrieved a flask of water and took a long swig. Now, the only thing to do was wait. If the ranger hadn’t suffered severe internal injuries, fatal sunstroke, shock, or dehydration, he would come to before dawn. And if he didn’t, then Hannibal would cut his losses and move on to plan b.

Sitting alone on a rock as the moon slid into the sky, like a glittering crystal claw, Hannibal became aware of the same spine-tingling sensation of being watched. His muscles tensed but other than that he remained motionless. He was still holding the knife; he flipped it in his palm so that the blade was flat to his wrist. In a fight, he could throw a punch and cut a man’s face from ear to ear without giving away his advantage. Hannibal had learned long ago that, despite his size and strength, it was easier to fight dirty than to die a saint. 

A few minutes passed in silence. And then, somewhere to his right, an animal snarled. _A wolf,_ Hannibal thought, and congratulated himself for correctly guessing the nature of his pursuer. It was easy enough to scare off a wolf—even a whole pack of them—and Hannibal was far more worried for his steed than for himself. However, a desperate animal was a dangerous animal. And out here any wound could be deadly. Especially with a depleted medical kit.

Slowly, Hannibal turned his head. He gripped the knife tighter, palm sweaty despite the plummeting temperature. It was easy to forget that one could freeze in the desert, but Hannibal had come across enough frost-stained corpses to remember what the nighttime could do. Even in the summer, temperatures could fall enough to make the hardiest man long for a warm hearth. 

The wolf growled again. Hannibal saw its silhouette, shadow cast by the sliver moon. It was small, he thought, and frowned. A yearling, or perhaps a coyote. That would explain its solitude. 

“I’m afraid I have no food to spare,” Hannibal said softly.

At the sound of his voice, the animal’s ears pricked. They were folded, not triangular, and in a moment of understanding, Hannibal smiled. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I mean your master no harm.” It wasn’t strictly true, but the dog wagged its tail and approached, skittish but clearly placated. Hannibal held out his hand and the dog growled, backing up. Hannibal sighed, sitting back and replacing his hand in his lap.

For a long moment the dog stood, legs slightly splayed, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. And then it turned and slipped back into the night, tail tucked and ears back. Hannibal watched it go, feeling slightly disappointed. The feeling quickly passed, and he returned to his silent vigil. In the distance, the owl hooted again, soft and mournful. Somewhere, a rabbit screamed. Hannibal imagined the timid dog wetting its muzzle in blood, soft fur and nervous eyes belying the beast within.

The ranger came to as the moon reached its zenith. Hannibal, who had allowed himself a moment’s rest, jerked his head up at the sound of shifting pebbles. The ranger was sitting up, eyes wild and glazed. He pressed a hand to his bandaged side and grimaced, blinking rapidly. 

“Hello,” Hannibal said, voice low and soft as if he were talking to another spooked animal. The ranger’s head turned toward him and his eyes—green-blue like a stormy sea—shimmered with confusion. “I found you in Wolf Canyon,” Hannibal explained with a smile. “It appears you tangled with someone on the wrong side of the law.”

The ranger winced, slumping back against the saddlebags. He tossed his head back, groaning. “Son of a bitch. I should’ve killed him.”

“Yes, I imagine that would have led to a better outcome for both you and your horse. Who, I’m afraid to say, didn’t make it.”

The ranger swore savagely enough to make an angel’s ears bleed. He ran a shaky hand over his freshly cleaned face and sighed. “I guess I owe you my life,” he said grudgingly. “For whatever it’s worth.”

Hannibal was taken aback at the ranger’s flagrant disrespect for his own wellbeing. “You expected to die.”

“No shit. You get shot out here, it’s a death sentence.”

“Not if you encounter a particularly good-natured surgeon of great renown,” Hannibal said with a charming smile. He shifted forward on his rock and held out his hand. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

With the same tentative hesitance that his dog had shown, the ranger grasped Hannibal’s hand. “Given the circumstances, the pleasure is all mine, Doctor.” And then, as if realizing he hadn’t returned the greeting properly, he hastily added, “I’m Will. Will Graham. I’m a—” he gestured to the badge pinned to his ruined shirt. “I’m a ranger.”

“I noticed.” Hannibal caught Will’s hand between both his own, noting the cold pallor of his skin. “And is it standard these days for rangers to bring their canine companions with them into the desert?”

Will pulled his hand away, not meeting Hannibal’s gaze. “Winston?” He looked around as if expecting to find his dog sleeping beside him. “You saw him? Is he…?”

“He’s not dead.” Will sagged with relief, flashing a brief smile. Hannibal returned it tenfold. “I believe he went to catch himself dinner, as I informed him that I unfortunately have none to spare. Besides, I hardly think he would enjoy hardtack.”

Will ran a hand through his hair. Hannibal hadn’t been able to spare enough water to rinse it, and it was stuck together in blood-crusted clumps. Will sighed, and Hannibal winced in sympathy. “He eats whatever I eat,” Will said. 

“Are you a hunter, Will?”

Will gave him a sharp, sweeping look. “Of animals, or people?”

“You’ve already informed me of your profession, so I’m aware that you hunt people.” Hannibal smiled at the phrasing. “Do you hunt for sport, or for sustenance?”

Will frowned again, looking away, off into the night. “I don’t kill for fun, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I don’t mean to offend. I am only trying to ascertain my safety in your presence. Any man can kill a ranger and take his badge.”

Will snorted. “You think I’m an outlaw?”

“I’m asking if you are. Politely.”

“Well, I’m not.” Will ran a hand through his hair again, tugging at the tangles. “Are _you?_ ”

“Of course not. If I were an outlaw, I would have slit your throat and left you in Wolf Canyon.”

Will frowned, seemingly mulling over the rationality of this statement. Then he nodded. “Did you save me because I’m a ranger? Are you looking to get a reward out of this?”

“The reward is seeing my patients recover,” Hannibal lied smoothly. “I have no personal stakes in your wellbeing beyond a desire to use my gifts for good.”

From the look on Will’s face, he didn’t entirely believe this. Hannibal felt a rush of satisfaction. It seemed that he had made the right choice in saving this one; he wasn’t stupid, and in fact seemed to be quite intuitive and quick-witted despite his addled state. 

“But we can talk about all this later,” Hannibal said, and gestured to Will’s bandaged flank. “You should rest, at least until morning. And then we can decide where to go from there. Where were you going, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“You may,” Will said, with a slightly sardonic slant. “I’m hunting a man. An outlaw.”

“The outlaw who did this to you?”

“Yes. He ambushed me in the canyon. I should’ve seen it coming.”

Hannibal made a soft, sympathetic sound. “Do you believe he is still alive?”

“Oh, he’s alive. I didn’t hit him. Didn’t have time. I was too busy trying not to hit his daughter.”

Realization hit Hannibal like a bullet to the chest. “Ah. You’re hunting Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the man who murdered all those young women and his wife, and then abducted his daughter.”

Will nodded. He still wouldn’t look Hannibal in the eye. “It was too risky to take the shot. I could’ve hit Abigail. That’s his daughter,” he added. “She, uh. She seemed scared out of her mind, and he had a knife to her throat. I thought he was willing to bargain—I could have her if I let him go, or something like that—but then he pulled a gun and shot me. I fell off my horse and that was that.”

“I wonder,” said Hannibal, “why he didn’t finish you off.”

“Arrogance.” Will’s smile was sharp, humorless. “He couldn’t imagine that I’d survive him. Probably thought he shot me clean through the heart.”

“You were in Wolf Canyon for some time, given that your horse died of dehydration,” Hannibal deduced. He pulled out a small leather flask and handed it to Will. “Speaking of.”

Will took the flask and uncorked it with shaky hands, then took a swig. He coughed, wiping his mouth. “Thanks.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “I imagine you have no idea how many days have passed since you were shot, but I would guess no more than two. The fact that you survived this long is a miracle, Will.”

“A miracle.” Will laughed bitterly, taking another long swig of water before setting it aside. “Hallelujah.”

“Do you make a habit of mocking God?” Hannibal asked, secretly delighted. 

“I make a habit of not believing in Him.” Will shifted, making a face as his bandages shifted. “Ours is a godless world, Dr. Lecter.”

“I have to disagree. But we were made in God’s image, and from what you’ve seen of Mankind, would you say we are a kind and loving race?”

Will closed his eyes. For a moment Hannibal thought he had fallen asleep, and then, “I think there are men, and there are monsters. And I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive.”

“Then perhaps God is monstrous,” Hannibal said. “Even in the eyes of His own creations.”

Another long beat of silence. Will tilted his head to the side, trying to get comfortable. “If Winston comes back,” he said, “call him to you. Use his name.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said softly. “Names are important, aren’t they, Will?”

Will didn’t respond. Hannibal listened as his breathing evened out and he slipped back into the deep, fevered sleep of the damned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed this! I have no idea if I'll manage to maintain the mental willpower to write another whole fic (especially when I have other WIPs I need to finish) but a girl can dream! :)


	2. Silvervein Springs

****

**Chapter Two**

****

**Silvervein Springs**

When Will woke up, the sun was cresting the horizon. Dust glazed the sky. Despite the early hour, heat blanketed the plains. The frozen night slunk away into the shadows to wait out the day, which was exactly what Will hoped to do, assuming he could first make sense of his surroundings and how he had ended up in them. 

“Good morning,” said a voice behind him.

Will sat up suddenly, twisting around, then gasped as pain spread up his side and through his chest like a lightning strike. 

“I suppose it is rather presumptuous of me to say ‘good morning’ to a man in your condition,” said Hannibal. Will remembered him now: the renowned doctor with an alluring accent he couldn’t quite place. In the fevered heat of waking, Will had wondered if he’d imagined him. But no, he was real. Hallucinations, in Will’s limited experience, didn’t usually cook breakfast and boil coffee fit for consumption. _More_ than fit for consumption, he decided after taking his first bite.

“Thank you.” He winced as his voice came out slurred around a huge bite of eggs and jerky. Manners weren’t his forte, but he got the distinct feeling that, despite the dust clinging to his spurs, Hannibal cared about such things. “Sorry. Um, how did you…?” He gestured to the eggs. 

Hannibal flashed him an amused smile. “Snake eggs. Hence the odd taste, which I’m sure you are far too polite to mention.” 

Will, who had been about to mention this, snapped his mouth shut and nodded. “They’re good. Really, really good. Did you put something on them?”

“Yes,” said Hannibal. “A special salt I keep in my cooking kit.”

“You have a cooking kit?”

“Just because a man goes wandering doesn’t mean he can’t feel at home,” said Hannibal. 

Will laughed. A short, sharp laugh cut short by the pain in his side. “God. So, you’re a chef as well as a surgeon and rescuer of lost souls?”

“I am many things.” Hannibal took Will’s empty coffee cup and plate and wiped them down with a cloth before replacing them in the saddlebags. “As uncomfortable as this may be for you, we need to set out on the trail. I’m not sure where you were headed, but I am on my way west across the Arizona Territory.”

“You came from California.” Will sat up straighter. He leaned forward as Hannibal retrieved the saddlebags he was using as a back rest. “Once I’d finished with Garrett Jacob Hobbs, that’s where I was headed. There’s a man there—an outlaw—who I’ve been chasing for years.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head. “The California Ripper.”

Using the rock monolith behind him for support, Will got vertical. His knees were weak, and his head spun, but he managed to stay upright. “You’ve heard of him.”

“Who hasn’t?” Hannibal sounded amused. He finished securing the saddlebags and set about cinching the saddle straps tighter around his stallion’s barrel chest. The stallion flicked his ears and tossed his head as Hannibal gave him a flat-palmed smack on the flank, startling the animal into releasing his breath, allowing him to properly tighten the straps. 

Will was impressed. Before he had mastered the rangers’ lifestyle, he’d learned the hard way that startled horses could throw a rider if the saddle wasn’t cinched on tight, and clever horses could prevent proper cinching by holding their breath through the process. He wondered if Hannibal had learned this through experience as well. It was a funny thought: this handsome, well-mannered and surprisingly well-dressed man being throw by his devious steed into the dirt.

“What are you smiling about, Will?” Hannibal gave Will a curious look. “The California Ripper is hardly a laughing matter.”

“Oh, no.” Will waved him away, mortified by the implication that he, a professional agent of the law, would find the Ripper’s gruesome murders funny. “I’m still a little—” he gestured to his head, “—off-kilter.”

With the stallion properly saddled and cinched, Hannibal kicked dirt over his cooking fire and mounted with astonishing grace. “That’s to be expected.” He wrapped the reins around his right hand and wrist. The other he extended to Will. “In that case, you might appreciate some help. Baltimore is quite tall, even for a stallion of his breeding.”

For a moment, Will stood staring at the proffered hand, processing the fact that Hannibal knew enough about his stallion’s breeding to comment on it. Will was used to riding the equine equivalent of mongrel dogs; the thought that anyone would ride the range on a steed with a pedigree was absurd. “You want me to ride double.”

“Unless you would prefer to walk,” Hannibal said. If it weren’t for the spark in his eyes, Will would think he was dead serious.

“It’s undignified.” Will regretted the words as soon as they were out. _Undignified?_ The only undignified thing was rejecting the extremely generous offer Hannibal was making him. Hannibal had no reason to offer food, water, and space in the saddle to Will, and yet here he was. Offering.

“Sorry,” Will muttered. He took Hannibal’s hand. Hissing through his teeth as the stitches in his side pulled, he maneuvered onto the saddle. Exhausted, head spinning and eyes watering, he grabbed Hannibal’s hips, resting his forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Is this okay?”

“Of course. Whatever is comfortable.”

‘Comfortable’ was a bit of an overstatement, but Will didn’t mention it. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed as evenly as he could, trying to ignore the jolts of pain shooting through his abdomen and ribs as they set off across the rust-red plains.

  


Will wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Hannibal coaxed Baltimore to a halt. At first he though they were pausing for water, but then the saddle shifted as Hannibal dismounted. Will nearly toppled after him; he barely managed to grab the saddle horn and slide off the horse without falling in the dirt.

“Why are we stopping?” Will started to say. Then he smelled the crisp scent of fresh water. Turning in a circle, he took in their changed surroundings: they were in a canyon carved from red stone, clear pools filling water-worn concaves in the canyon floor. _Natural springs,_ Will realized. A tiny oasis in the middle of the otherwise parched plains. A bastion of rest and hope for plants, animals, and people alike.

“I am not sure of its true name,” Hannibal said as he unbridled Baltimore and turned him loose, “but when I came this way many years ago, I met a man who had stopped for the night to rest and replenish his waterskins. He called this canyon Silvervein Springs.”

“Silvervein Springs,” Will echoed absently. Sitting on a smooth rock ledge, he took off his boots (caked in dust and blood and hardly worth keeping, if he’d had any other option at all) and waded into the water. There was no point in removing his clothes—they would dry quickly once he emerged, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable being naked around a stranger, no matter how kindhearted and respectable Hannibal seemed. 

“So,” said Will, ducking his head to scrub his fingers through his filthy hair, “did you travel with that man? Was he headed to California, too?”

“Oh, no.” Hannibal removed his boots and set them next to Will’s. The contrast in quality was immediately apparent; Will tried not to feel put off by this. “I am not typically inclined to travel with others. Not _typically_ ,” Hannibal emphasized with a meaningful look at Will. “And even if I were interested in companionship, he was heading East, and I West. Two ships passing in the night.”

Still scrubbing copious amounts of blood and dirt out of his hair and clothes, Will met Hannibal’s seeking gaze. He smiled—more of a nervous tic than a genuine expression—and turned away. Although he had all his clothes on, he felt suddenly naked. Exposed. “It’s strange to meet someone this far out in the desert. I bet it was nice to hear another human voice after days alone on the trail. Even lone wolves are pack animals, as they say.”

“Do they?” Hannibal sounded amused again. “I suppose there are benefits to chance encounters like the one I had that night. He made a wonderful dinner, after all.”

There was something about the slant of Hannibal’s voice that Will couldn’t place. Something deceptively humorous, like an inside joke. But if there was a joke hidden somewhere in all that aristocratic syntax and Oxford vocabulary, Will wasn’t privy to it.

“Sorry, but you won’t be getting a good meal out of me,” Will said sardonically. He finished washing his hair (as much as he could without soap) and shook his head like a wet dog. Like _his_ wet dog, who was currently charging up and down the canyon, hopping from pool to pool and panting like he’d just run a marathon. “I never really learned to cook.”

“Nonsense,” said Hannibal. “If given proper resources and time, anyone can make a good meal.”

“Not me. I’d probably catch the pan on fire.”

“I know you are joking, but that isn’t uncommon. If you don’t clean your pans frequently, fats and oils build up and become flammable. Even the best cooks catch their pans on fire.”

Will didn’t have anything to say to that, so he called Winston over and occupied himself with scrubbing the dog’s filthy fur. Winston whined and nudged Will’s hand, tail wagging. “Yeah, good boy, is that nice?” Will scratched behind his ears, working out mats and checking for ticks. “It’ll be nice to be clean, won’t it.”

“Yes,” said Hannibal, who apparently hadn’t realized Will was still talking to the dog. “As much as I love to wander, I find the constant dirt and drudgery tiresome.”

“Don’t we all.” Will scratched Winston’s head, making sure all the obvious burs and dirt was gone. “So, Dr. Lecter—”

“It’s Hannibal, please. I no longer practice medicine in any official capacity, so titles aren’t necessary.” 

Will cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward. “Uh, right. Hannibal, then. What will you do once you’re out East? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. When I came to this continent from Europe a while back and settled in Baltimore for a time, I had no plans or expectations. I find that serendipity suits me.”

“Baltimore? As in Baltimore, Maryland?” “Yes. It was there that I practiced medicine, until the draw of the West pulled me in.”

“You lived in California?”

“For several years, yes.”

“And now you’re heading back home.”

“Well, not home. Not exactly. Home, for me, is a complicated concept.”

Will frowned. He glanced at Hannibal, hoping to glean some extra information off his expression, then turned away when he realized Hannibal was no longer wearing anything above the waist. “Oh. What country are you from in Europe?”

“That is a controversial topic. The land I was born on is currently under the rule of the Russian Empire, but, as the insurrection in January of 1863 showed, the memory and spirit of the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth is still alive and well. Efforts to reestablish sovereignty and independence are ongoing, or they were when last I heard. As far as news is concerned, California is truly at the world’s end. But I imagine that decades of political upheaval will not simmer down anytime soon.”

Will deliberated between several responses ranging from ‘oh’ to ‘what’s your opinion on the matter?’ before deciding to simply nod and look interested. Which was hard, since he was currently facing away from Hannibal and doing his best to pretend that he wasn’t naked from the belt up.

“Now it’s your turn,” Hannibal said. “Tell me, Will: what does ‘home’ mean to you?”

“Jesus Christ,” Will muttered. “Isn’t that kind of a loaded question?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Well, given the context of this conversation, I doubt you’ll be satisfied if I just say ‘Louisiana’.”

“I will be satisfied with that answer if you are,” said Hannibal. “But I don’t believe you are.”

Suddenly struck with the childish urge to blurt _well you believe wrong then,_ Will distracted himself by lifting his shirt to check the bandages on his flank. They had stayed on but were now waterlogged, and clearly in need of changing. Which meant that he couldn’t afford to piss Hannibal off. He was relying on his medical expertise too much to commit a true breach of etiquette.

“If you are from Louisiana,” Hannibal continued, either ignoring or ignorant of Will’s sullen silence, “then I wonder why you didn’t stay closer to home. You could have become a ranger anywhere. Why did you decide to travel so far West, Will?”

“Well, the short answer is that my father died.” Will wasn’t sure why he said it, but then again, what we the point in keeping secrets from strangers? Hannibal was just making conversation.

“My condolences.”

“It was almost a decade ago.”

“May I ask what happened?”

Will hesitated this time. “He was murdered.”

“Ah. Is that when your interest in law enforcement was born?” 

“Yes.”

“And did you ever find his killer?”

Against his better judgement, Will turned to face Hannibal. It didn’t feel right to be talking about this without facing his conversational partner. Even if his conversational partner was distractingly shirtless. “No. I never did. But after a couple years I began to realize that, if I was going to do any good in this world, I would have to stop treating my life like a vendetta. Whoever killed my father was probably just a desperate man in need of money. Which,” he added with a humorless laugh, “is ironic, given the fact that my father had none.”

“Your family was poor, then.”

“Very. And I never knew my mother, so it was just me and my dad. And after he died, well…” Will shrugged one shoulder. “Like you said, ‘home’ is a complicated concept.”

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. “After your father’s death, you joined the Rangers in the hopes of catching his killer. But eventually you realized that there are bigger fish swimming beneath the river’s surface. Your father’s death, as devastating as it may have been for you, was just a ripple in the dark waters of the West. And so you wandered, no longer tethered to a single place or person.”

Will wanted to say _isn’t it kind of weird to compare a desert to a river?_ but thought it might sound rude. And, since he was relying on Hannibal to redress his wound once they were done bathing, he instead said, “That’s just about right.”

“Just about?”

“Well, I actually am tethered. To a place and a person.”

“Are you engaged, Will?”

“What?” Will took a moment to consider that ridiculous notion, then shook his head for extra emphasis as he said, “No, not engaged. I’ve never been interested in settling down. I’m not talking about a lover. I’m talking about the California Ripper.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Hannibal freeze for a moment, then go back to washing his face and hair with the same casual air as before. “You see yourself as tethered to the Ripper, then. And, by association, to his hunting grounds in California.”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve been, slowly but surely, heading West.”

“And if the Ripper is no longer in California?”

Will shot him a look. “Why? Have you heard a rumor that he’s leaving?”

“No. But he hasn’t killed in almost a year. Aren’t you worried that all your hard work tracking him to the coast will go to waste?”

Will shrugged. “That’s the job, I guess. I chase outlaws all over the desert, killing them until eventually one of them kills me.”

“But the Ripper isn’t just another outlaw, is he?”

“No. He’s… something else. I’m not sure there’s a name for what he is yet.”

Hannibal was watching him intently now. Will felt the heat of his gaze, hotter than the midday sun, on the side of his face. “And if _you_ had to put a name to him?”

For a long moment, Will stood staring into the pool, watching dried blood and dirt swirl in the clear water. The spring was so clear that his feet were visible, distorted by spreading ripples. “ _El Diablo,_ ” Will said. “I’d call him the Devil.”

“Yes,” said Hannibal, with the air of a man discussing a piece of literature or a fine painting. Which (in the right company) was arguably what the Ripper did: he turned death into art, statues of flesh and bone elevated from corpses into dark displays of ecstasy and beauty. “Or perhaps he is God. Didn’t I say God is monstrous, Will?”

There was something in Hannibal’s voice—a distinct charged change in tone—that raised the hairs on the back of Will’s neck. A tingling sensation fanned out from his shoulders down his spine and he shivered. “Maybe he thinks he’s God,” he said. “But he’s not.”

“Of course he’s not.” Hannibal’s voice went back to normal: slightly amused, slightly reserved, and wreathed in smoke. “There is no God. Isn’t that what you believe?”

Suddenly fed up with their conversation, Will turned and stalked out of the pool, water falling off him in rivulets that snaked into cracks in the dry red stone. Pausing for a moment he clenched and unclenched his fists, then turned to meet Hannibal head-on. “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if the Ripper is a man, the Devil, or God. Whatever he is, I’m going to find him. And when I do, I’m going to kill him.”

Hannibal smiled. A slow, easy smile, sly and silent as a venomous snake. “Good, Will,” he said. “Very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at 3am yesterday night because I am a gay little nocturnal creature :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left feedback or kudos!! <3 I'm so glad y'all are enjoying the gay cowboy story so far lmao


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